(J. H. Amherst.)

My arm is my country's right,

My heart is my true love's bower;
Truly for love and fame to fight
Becomes a martial troubadour.
Though true he loved,
And wished for fame,
His mirth was moved
At all who came.

The cheerful soldiers shun all sorrow;
Waltz to-day and cry to-morrow.
E'en where the cannon-roar was deep,
With dauntless heart he fought his way;
'Mid murd'rous guns and swordsmen sweep,
He gaily sung his soldier's lay.
Though true he loved, &c.

Her lips were the lily, the ruby her nose;

Yet love attempts all things, I swore that I'd win her,

And this Madam Grace,

With her whimsical face,

A bride to the altar I surely had led,

Had she not bless'd a rival who never had said
Grace before dinner.

What a pity such a Grace, with such a queer face, could not wait to say grace before dinner.

There was a lady, a Spanish lady, a lovely Blon'dinella,

And they call'd her for shortness Signora Flowna de Guzman, ya Plata de Bazalos Pintendo d'Arangues, Montagna, Yiolante, Isabella; So numerous the charms of this heavenly belle, She possess'd my fond heart, like a conjuror's spell;

Had she been Orpheus's wife he'd have fetcheo her from hell.

*

The lily, the rose, and the stars in the skies,
Were cclips'd by her neck, her cheeks, and her

MANAGER STRUT.

MANAGER Strut was four feet high,

And looked mighty droll when he cocked his eye, For he quinted just so;

He squinted just so.

And he waddled and he snuffled,

And he shuffled a little,

With one arm so-and the other kimbo,
He looked very like a tea-kettle,

He looked very like a tea-kettle,
But he couldn't sing half so well,

Though still in Macheath he was thought to excel,
Was thought to excel.

"Roses and lilies her cheeks disclose,
But her ripe lips are more sweet than those;
Press her, caress her,

With blisses and kisses,

Dissolve us in pleasure, and

Oh, rare Manager Strut! what a fine actor was
Manager Strut!

Now Mrs. Strut was very nigh,
Compared with Mister, twice as high,
When on her long leg so,
When on her long leg so;
But in walking she hobbled,
She hobbled a little ;

First on one foot so,

Then on her little toe,
With unequalled grace advancing,
Was not she the thing for dancing?
And in lively columbine

She was most prodigious fine.
She was no more than sixty-four.
Whene'er she danced,

The house advanced,

Encore encore! encore!

[Dances to the tune of tink, tinka. Oh, rare Manager Strut; dancing's nothing to Mrs. Strut.

Oh! rare Mrs. Strut, wl at a sweet mate has great Manager Strut'

Two charming babes had crowned the loves
Of these two tender turtle doves.
The boy had just his daddy's fault,

SPOKEN.] He squinted a little.

l'he girl had learned her mother's halt,

SPOKEN.] She hobbled a little.

And whether they spoke or whether they sung,
They did it all in the Yorkshire tongue;

Yet oft the play-bills did let fly
That they were two young Roscii,
Were two young Roscii!
SPOKEN.] Thus they played their parts:
"See, brother, see, on yonder bough

The robin sits. Hark! I hear him now.
Sweetest bird that ever flew;
Whistle, robin, loodle loo,
Doodle do doodle."

Oh! rare Manager Strutt! happy, thrice happy, is Manager Strut!

Oh! rare family Strut! happy, thrice happy, is Manager Strut!

THINKS I TO MYSELF, THINKS I.
(C. Dibdin.)

THINKS I to myself, thinks I,
This is a comical age we find,
ur neighbours' faults all of us spy,
But to our own faults are blind;

So poor Mrs. Muz, alas!

Who censur'd for ever Miss Mottle For looking so oft in the glass,

Forgot that she look'd in the bottle.

SPOKEN.] Mrs. Muz, you don't seem well, what's the matter?-(Imitating a drunken woman) O, sir, I am troubled with a consumption of the spirits.-Yes, I see you labour under a consumption of the spirits.-Yes, sir, it often comes upon me. -I dare say it does.-Yes, sir, and do you know the world is wicked enough to say that—Oh! oh!— crying) O, if that's the caseThinks I to myself, thinks I,

No wonder she's blind with a drop in her eye.

There's Truck, the shopkeeper, crics,

How Bullock, the butcher, swears,

And forgets what a parcel of lies He tells to sell his own wares.

Says Dough, Salmon's fish isn't sweet.' The coalman remarks, with pleasure,

Dough's bread's very seldom good weight,' While Dough says, his 'coals are bad measure.' SPOKEN.] Was you ever at the Buz and Mum Club, at the Wig and Watch Box? that's the place for neighbours' fare.-(All the conversation in different voices.)-Chair, chair, the president's toast.Confusion to backbiting, gentlemen.-Bravo' where's neighbour Snip, this evening? that's a good natured fellow, but monstrously given to cabbage.-Yes, give him an inch, he'll take an ell, and no man beats him at fine-drawing a bill.— [Here Mr. Snip enters.]-Ah, brother Snip, your worship was the last man in our mouths.--You have done me a great deal of honour, gentlemen. -0, yes, we always does our friends justice.Brother Barnacle, are you going.-Must, must; good night.-Good bye, my hearty fellow.-Is he gone? Yes.-That Barnacle's a queer fellow.-I say, Snip, did you twig his wife, last Sunday, with Razor, the cutler?-Hush! Razor's at the top of the table.-O, if that's the case, I'm mum; but I'll be shot if the last boy's nose belongs to the spectacle-maker, for all that.-I sees through that joke, Brother Bright.-Aye, you're a deep one, he, he, he!-The toast stands, gentlemen,-Confusion to backbiters.

Thinks I to myself, thinks I,

It's all neighbours' fare, and rubs off when its dry. Professions, like puffs, are wind,

Words butter no parsnips, O!

I'm glad you're come, means, you'll oft find,
I shall be very glad when you go.
Miss Prim she calls on Miss Prue,

Who's transported with rapture to meet her;
But the moment her back is in view,

Cries, there's no getting rid of that creter.'

SPOKEN, in different voices.] Bless me, who's coming?-that eternal gossip, Mrs. Whifmejig, and her nasty pug dog; provoking!-My dear Mrs. Whifmejig, I am so glad to see you.-My dear Mrs. Nibbs, you do me infinite honour-Pompey, get off the white sofa, with your dirty feet.-0, the dear creter, let him amuse himself (aside)-I wish he was in the duck-pond-I hope you mean to stay dinner?-nay, you shall, I insist upon it.If

you must know, I came on purpose-aside)Thought so; one can never have a nice tit bit, but she's sure to poke in her nose.-Betty, don't dress the ortolans till supper.-Rat-a-tat-tat-tat!!!Hang the door, it is alive, I think.-Is your master at home?-Measter do say, he be not at home, sir.-Why, blockhead, if he says so, he must be at home, and I hear him at the top of the stairs.Thunder and turf! can't you be after believing the man? I tell you I'm gone out these two hours. Thinks I to myself, thinks I,

Ti diddle de dum, ti diddle de di.

Maxime optime magister domine,

I was taken all over, I cannot tell how,

Me miserabile dolorous homine.

I was puzzled and posted by the powers above,
Till I saw Kitty Spriggins, and found it was love.
Hiegho! away they all go,

Rule of three, Latin, Greek, and astronomy.
Love gave me a lesson I couldn't digest,

Maxime Cupido magister domine,

Till Hymen popp'd in and I thought I was blessed, Me miserabile dolorous homine.

In the morning I wed full of joy and delight, And my spouse broke my head long before it was light.

Hiegho' to the devil may go

Multiplication, hard words, and economy.

OH, white are the cliffs fair Albion enclose,
And green is the ocean from which she arose ;
St. George was a hero, of all the brave knights,
She chose as her champion and guard of her rights.
She chose as her champion, &c.

He invented Life's Balsam and Golden Elixir,
And conquered a dragon fierce as the Hector;
From that moment he gave fair Albion relief-
First brew'd good October, then roasted fat beef.
Oh, bonny St. George and the dragon O!
Bonny St. George, &c.

WELSH AIR.

Oh, sweet the harpers of Cambria play,
Ah, hyd a nos!

And Taff, look you, tunes upon David's good day,
Ah, hyd a nos!

Taff's blood is noble, and ancient her race,
Her pedigree plain as the nose on her face,
Her pedigree plain, &c.
Ah, hyd a nos!

For St. David he taught her, 'mongst other good habits,

To make love, leek porridge, cheese, and Welsh rabbits;

To pe prave, and at serving her friend not to wince,
To love her good King and to honour her Prince.
Then, a leek in her hat wore St. David, O!
Then a leek, &c.

SCOTCH AIR.

Canty and braw are fam'd Scotia lads,
Hey for the cross of St. Andrew, O!

Wi' their bannets, their trus, and their braw tartan plaids,

Hey for the cross of St. Andrew, O!

St. Andrew, good truth, was a fine learned chiel, He could lilt, play the pipes, and dance a good reel,

Wi' his Andrew farrara he gard the fore weel,
Hey for the cross of St. Andrew, O!
Wi' his muckle farrara he gard the fore whistle,
And kept them in awe of his national thistle;
His precepts to follow na Scotsman wou'd lag,
Ecce signum proud Gallia's invincible flag.
Then hey for the cross of St. Andrew, O
Hey for the, &c.

IRISH AIR.

Oh, green are the fields Erin chose for her part, sir, Erin, ma vourneen, says Paddy, oh!

And green is the shamrock, so dear to his heart, sir,

Erin, ma vourneen, says Paddy, oh!

St. Patrick, the child of his own dearest hope, sir, And bulls he invented, but not like the Pope, sir; And green is the shamrock, on which his heart doats, sir,

Erin, ma vourneen, says Paddy, oh!

For he lov'd pretty girls, rich wines, and good dinners,

And the saints that did not were surely great sin

ners;

Minimi nebule no longer domine,

From her and her tantrums on running away,
Me miserabile dolorous homine;

But she saved me the trouble and ran away first,
And if ever I follow her may I be curst.

UNION AIR.

English, Scotch, Welsh, and Irish, join hands and all sing,

Prosper long the Princesses, our laws, and the

King;

COME, listen awhile to a joke that is new,
And lately occurred 'twixt a Frenchman and Jew;
Mr. Shadrack went out, mit his basket, one day,
Full of oranges fine, at de 'Change to display,
Where he bustled and bawled China oranges fine,
Come, eighteen a shilling, and sixpence for nine.

SPOKEN.] Pless my heart, pless my heart and patience, vere ish all mine customers-vere ish all dem little plackguards, vot dey don't come from school and spend dere monish? vell, vell, I pose I must tip 'em anoder rap mit de paper, and vile I'm doing dat, I may quite so vell sing,

sup

Toll de roll loli, Mr. Shadrack, de orangeman,
Toll de roll loll, Mr. Shadrack, de Jew.

By and by Jean de Paris he chanced to espy,
Ven he run and he bawled-here, monsieur, come

and buy-

O ho, vat is dat, is de orange quite sweet? Yes, my friend, quite de best you can find pon de street,

But me have not de change, says monsieur to the Jew,

And quickly produced a Napoleon to view.

SPOKEN.] About a piece of coold, vell, I declare I never saw such a ting since I've been in de street; vell, plow my vig, dere's luck; vell, I tell you vat I shall do mit you; I'll give you coot silber and change, and six oranges into de pargain; dem my heart, dere's a lucky deeble vat I am, it sets my heart a thumping and dancing in my bosom, and fairly makes me sing,

Toll de roll, &c. Mit de fruit and de change soon monsieur skip'd away,

And Shadrack exulting to Moses did say,
De Frenchman is done, all de silber I had,
Vas two three-shilling pieces, by my Laban, all
bad.

Vell, vell, vat a pargain you've got, replied Mo,
Let me see de Napoleon before vat you go.

SPOKEN.] Vell, come along my hearts, come along mit me, so dere goes Mr. Ikey, Mr. Lipey, Mr. Aarons, Mr. Benjamins, Mr. Moses, Mr Levi, and I don't know how many dibels, dere dey goes slap bang up a blind alley to look at de gold Napoleon; and dey all cries out, see, dere's a lucky dibel, dere's a fellow, see vat he's done; de Frenchman has done him clean. Ah, ah, vat's de matter-ah, vat you don't know vat de matter ish. Shadrack's been and done de Frenchman, done him clean. I say Mo, vat vas you apont, vat you didn't look sharp. Plow my vig, for vat you low me up, vy didn't you look sharp yourself, you've always cot plenty of smitch apout you; vat you plow me up for? At last, Mr. Moses, arter he had put on his spectacles, at last he cries out-dere's a soft spoon-look at him, stare him in de face-how dat fellow vat calls himself a Jew, and

swells about coming from Duke's Place, tiuks vat he has done de Frenchman, tip'd him de smitch, and all dat dem my vi, if de Frenchman harn't done him so clean as a platter; for, as I hope to be shaved, and as I'm an honest man, upon my heart, if it's any ting in de vorld but a bit of coppers gilt.-Vell, veli, poor Shadrack, he looked so blue as a pilbury, to tink vat the Frenchman had pit him, and all dat; so he picks himself up and his oranges, and he vants to bolt, but dey vont stand it, dey vill have the grin upon him -so dey sets up a dancing and a prancing about him like so many dibels playing old Nich mid him, singing,

Toll de roll loll, spooney Shadrack, de orangeman, Toll de roll loll, spooney Shadrack, de Jew

........

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.
(Burns.)

WHERE'S he for honest poverty

That hangs his head and a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by,
And dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that and a'that,

Our toils obscure and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea-stamp,
The man's the gowd for a'that.

For a' that, &c. What though on hamely fare we dine Wear hodden gray and a' that, Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wire, A man's a man for a' that,

For a' that and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that,
The honest man, though e'er so poor,

Is king o'men for a' that.

Dear praties, we can't live without them,

They grow in our fields and our men they employ; And talk as you will, you must say this about them, A maily pratie's an Irishman's joy.

They make the boys stout, and they keep the girls slender,

They soften the heart and they strengthen the mind;

And the man from the bog, or the lord in high splendour,

All live by praties, as all folks can find. Besides, if a foe come to threaten old Erin,

We'll bother his noddle, and soon stop his breath; And at our ammunition he'd soon be found staring, For with praties, dear praties, we'd stone him to death! Dear praties, &c. Then, if you'd be merry, brave, stout, and quite frisky,

I've only a small little hint now to give; Pray don't be afraid to drink plenty of whiskey, And a great many years you are likely to live. Then take my advice, a'l ye gents and ye ladies,

Eat plenty of murphies, and d―n the expense; For if you but swallow our mealy praties, By St. Patrick, you all will be choking with sense! Dear praties, &c.

vie,

While jocund we follow the hounds in full cry. Let the drudge of the town make riches his sport, And the slave of the state hunt the smiles of the court;

Nor care nor ambition our patience annoy,
But innocence still gives us zeal to our joy.

With the sports of the field, &c.
Mankind are all hunters in various degree;
The priest hunts a living, the lawyer a fee;
The doctor a patient, the courtier a place,
Though often, like us, they're flung out with
disgrace.

With the sports of the field, &c. The cit hunts a plumb, the soldier hunts fame; The poet a dinner, the patriot a name; And the artful coquette, though she seems to refuse, Yet, in spite of her airs, she her lover pursues. With the sports of the field, &c.

Let the bold and the busy hunt glory and wealth, All the blessing we ask, is the blessing of health; With hounds and with horns, through the woodlands to roam,

And when tir'd abroad, find contentment at home. With the sports of the field, &c.

...

NANCY OF THE DALE.

MY Nancy leaves the rural train,
A camp's distress to prove;
All other ills she can sustain,
But living from her love.

But, dearest, though your soldier's there,
Will not your spirits fail,

To mark the hardships you must share,
Dear Nancy of the Dale?

Or should your love such dangers scorn,
Ah! how shall I secure

Your health 'midst toils which you were born
To sooth, but not endure?

A thousand perils I must view,
A thousand ills assail,

Nor must I tremble e'en for you,
Dear Nancy of the Dale.

........

TOM STEADY.

TOM STEADY own'd each bland sensation
That worth and virtue could impart,
The kindest thoughts of heaven's creation
Adorn'd his mild, yet manly heart;
Yet think not, though to love devoted,
In milksop fashion Tom you view-
His fault was, he too fondly doated

On one who prov'd to him untrue.

The maid had own'd she lov'd no other
So well as Tom, who, trebly blest,
To one he priz'd much more than brother,
In confidence his joy exprest.